The fire ate Rome's heart out. On the second day the wind shifted, blowing the flames away from the Market Square and the Capitol but driving them across the northern slopes of the Palatine. By the third day, everything south of the Sacred Way was ablaze, and by the fourth there was nothing left there but blackened masonry, charred beams and a silting of ash. The House of the Kings. Vesta's temple and grove. The Temple of Jupiter Stayer of the Host, which Romulus had founded eight hundred years before. Gone. All gone. To the east, where I was, the flames raced between Caelian and Esquiline, gutting Isis and Serapis as far as the Servian Wall. By the sixth day between the river and Mount Caeliolus to the west and east and the Sacred Way and the Aventine to the north and south Rome was a ruin, stinking of sour smoke and half-burned corpses.
Lucius had come as soon as he'd got Bassus's message. He threw open the public buildings on Mars Field in the north-west of the city and his own Vatican Gardens beyond to the refugees, organised emergency accommodation and an extra grain supply from the Ostian granaries and the towns outside Rome, cutting the price to a sixteenth of its value. All this, however, I heard at second-hand. I only saw him once, on the fourth day, when I went to the Tower of Maecenas to beg Bassus for more men.
The first thing that struck me was the quiet. Although it was nothing compared to the screaming hell of the Third District, Maecenas Tower, being the operations centre, was always noisy. The ground floor, where most of the routine reports were made, was even fuller than usual, but there was no movement, only a terrible stillness. I shoved my way inside and grabbed the nearest clerk by the shoulder.
'Where's Bassus?' I said.
'What?' His eyes hadn't followed the rest of his body round. They were still turned towards the base of the staircase.
'The consul, you fool! Is he here?'
'Yes.' He had finally given me his full attention, but it had cost an effort. I knew him now: he was one of Bassus's best freedmen, a clever Asian Greek from the Public Works Department. 'Yes, he's on the roof. But he's got –'
I didn't stop to listen. Pushing past I began to climb the stair. That was crowded, too; but again no one was moving. The whole tower seemed, for some reason, to be frozen, listening.
I heard the first notes just before I squeezed through the final group on to the roof itself and saw the reason for the stillness.
Lucius was standing with his back to me, facing out over the burning city. He was wearing a tragic gown, sewn with pearls and sequins that flashed and glittered in the light of the flames. In the crook of his left arm he held a cithara, the heavy eleven-string lyre used for concert performances. As I watched he drew the plectrum across the strings and began to sing:
Muse, tell of the wrath of the Greeks, when the wooden horse gave birth,
Tumbling to earth her bronze-clad foals
Terrible in their anger,
Bringing death to Ilium...
I stood as if nailed to the roof's floor. The song was Lucius's Sack of Troy, which he had written the year before and had intended for his cancelled Greek tour. Under and above it came the sounds of the dying city far below; in my ears, and in my head, too. Men shouting. Women and children screaming. The sliding crash of falling buildings and the terrible, constant crackling of the flames. Over to the left, against the southern parapet, I saw Bassus in the middle of a knot of others. He was weeping. I put my fingers to my own cheeks and they came away wet and dark with soot.
At last the thing ended. Lucius struck a final chord and held his pose, waiting for the applause. It came; scattered, yet it came. I couldn't bring myself to join in. I was thinking of the corpse in the alleyway, that I'd thought was a dog's.
The emperor turned and made his bow. I was about to slip away, but he saw me.
'Titus, darling! What're you doing here?' He handed the cithara to awaiting slave and came towards me. His gown – purple-dyed – was dull as old blood in the firelight. 'Did you enjoy that?'
'Very nice,' I said.
'My dear, you look like a half-burned scarecrow!' He hugged me. 'And you absolutely stink! What've you been doing to yourself?'
'Oh, this and that.' I could've hit him. 'Taking part in the sack of Rome, mostly.'
'It's terrible, isn't it?' For a moment – but only for a moment – his face clouded. 'Bassus was telling me three districts have gone already. Including the palace, of course. Such a shame. We'd just had the decorators in.'
'At least the fire's had its uses.' I gestured towards the slave with the cithara. I don't think I'd ever been so angry. 'It makes for such marvellous theatre.'
'Yes, doesn't it?' He nodded, and beamed. His arm was still round my shoulders and he smelled of scent. 'I couldn't waste the opportunity, could I? Such drama, my dear! Such excitement! It's almost worth everything.'
'Almost.' As unobtrusively as I could I moved out of his grip.
Not unobtrusively enough. He frowned.
'I do care, Titus,' he said gently. 'I've done my best. And what can it possibly matter to anyone?'
'What indeed?' I glanced across at Bassus. His face, and the faces of the others around him – I noticed they were all senators – were hard as stone.
'You'll see.' Lucius was talking to me as if to a child. 'Once we get this terrible fire under control I'll build a proper city. Wide streets with covered walks. Proper fire precautions. Lots of new public buildings. Grants, of course, for private citizens who've lost their property. It'll be a blessing in disguise, Rome was such a dump.' He paused. 'Oh, and a proper palace as well. Not just for me. For Rome. Something we can all be proud of.'
'I'll look forward to that,' I said. 'And now, if you'll excuse me...'
I moved away, towards Bassus. Lucius didn't stop me; but I couldn't help noticing his sudden look of hurt, as if I had actually hit him after all. In a way he was right; that was the dreadful thing. Performing his Sack of Troy to the backdrop of the blazing city meant nothing; as I'd said myself, a marvellous bit of theatre. It didn't matter a straw, especially set against all the good he'd done since he'd got back to Rome. He was sincere, too, about his plans for the city. I knew that; Lucius would move heaven and earth to make sure that Rome after the fire was a better and a safer place to live in.
But what would they remember, the Romans of a hundred years' time, when all of us were dead? That the Emperor Nero had rebuilt the city, much of it at his own expense? Or that he played the lyre and sang while the old Rome burned below him? You, my readers, know the answer as well as I do. And so will your children, and your children's children.
Lucius's tragedy was that he couldn't even ask himself the question.
41.
We thought, on the sixth day, that it was all over. In the Third, Tenth and Eleventh Districts there was nothing left to burn, and where the alleys gave way on the slopes of the hills to stone-built houses and more open ground the fire had burned itself out or been brought under control. Then reports came in of a fresh outbreak to the north, in the Seventh District, the largely residential region beyond the Servian Wall. From there the fire spread westward into the Flaminian Racetrack District. It burned for three more days, not stopping until it reached the river. By the morning of 28 July, when everything was finally over, half the city was a blackened cinder and half its population homeless or dead.
I don't know when the rumours started, or who started them; no one had had any time for gossip up to then. I heard them first from Bassus, who was staying with me temporarily: being consul, instead of going off to his villa in the Alban Hills while the damage to his own house was being repaired, the poor fellow was stuck in Rome (or what was left of it)organising the clearing-up operation.
It had taken my bath slaves the whole day, plus two pounds of pumice and a gallon of rosewater, to stop me looking and smelling like a lump of charcoal. When I came into the solar for a pre-dinner drink to complete the transformation Bassus was inspecting the fluorspar wine dipper I'd just bought.
'Nice,' he said.
'So it ought to be, for three hundred thousand.' I reclined. The slave busied himself with the cups and strainer.
'Jupiter!' He set the thing down carefully on its napkin. 'That's the price of a better-than-decent slave!'
You have to make allowances: Bassus was from Patavium, and his family were farmers.
'The emperor paid a million for his,' I said.
'Then he's got more money than sense. And so have you.'
He meant it. I laughed. 'Not at all, my dear. There's a difference. Mine's worth every penny. They saw poor Nero coming.'
'I'd rather have the slave, in any case. Still' – he sipped his wine –'I suppose it's a matter of priorities.'
'Indeed. Have you seen him recently? The emperor?'
'We'd an interview this morning, Frugi and I.' The senior consul was back in Rome. He'd arrived shortly after Lucius, but since his own house was on the Caelian and under threat from the fire we hadn't seen much of him. 'A remarkably productive interview, really. Nero came up with a lot of good ideas.'
'You sound surprised.' The slave had gone. I filled my own cup.
'Well, it's just...' He frowned. 'You were there that night at Maecenas Tower. You saw him yourself. You know what I mean.'
'I know exactly what you mean, my dear. Very dramatic, of course, but just a little ill-advised under the circumstances.'
'Ill-advised be damned. It was stupid.' He hesitated. 'You know the emperor's being blamed for starting the fire himself?'
'What?' I almost dropped the wine dipper, but caught myself in time and replaced it carefully.
'The Maecenas Tower story's gone the rounds. People are saying he burned the city just for the sake of the performance.'
'That's nonsense. It's worse than nonsense; it's absolute stupidity.'
'I didn't say I believed it.' Bassus was looking uncomfortable. 'I said that was what people are saying.'
'What people?'
'The ordinary citizens. Even a few of the better classes.'
'But Lucius was in Antium when the fire started. Everyone knows that.'
'They say he arranged things before he left. And there are reports of gangs stopping firemen from doing their job, claiming they were acting under the emperor's orders.'
'I had trouble with a few of those myself. They were looters, trying it on.' I hadn't thought twice about it at the time, with so much else to do. 'Bassus, believe me, Nero just isn't capable of something like this. And what reason could he possibly have?' Bassus shook his head, but he didn't look convinced. I was seriously worried. The mob was one thing – the average Roman citizen with a third-floor tenement room will blame anyone for anything at the drop of a corn-dole ticket – but reasonable men like Bassus were another matter. 'That business at the tower was just a piece of silliness. You know how the emperor is. Where art's concerned he just doesn't think.'
'Did he mention his new palace to you?'
The sudden change of direction took me by surprise. 'He said something about it, yes.'
'What exactly?'
I was cautious. 'Nothing much. Only that he wanted it to be impressive.'
Bassus laughed. 'It's to be impressive, all right. It'll take in everything from the Palatine to Maecenas Gardens.'
'I'm sorry, my dear, but that's nonsense. Something that big would stretch half way across the city. It'd mean demolishing –' I stopped, suddenly cold. No demolition was necessary; there was nothing between the Palatine and the Esquiline to demolish. Not now. 'He's serious?'
'He had it all worked out. What it would look like. The decoration. Even some idea of the cost. As if he'd been planning it for months.'
I said nothing. I simply could not believe that Lucius would be so cold-blooded. Performing his Sack of Troy with Rome burning around him, yes, that was in character. But to start a fire that would kill thousands just to clear space for his own building plans – no, not even Lucius was that much of an egotist. Besides, he'd said himself that he'd just had the palace redecorated, and money aside he would never have done that if he'd known it wouldn't last the year out. Never.
'There's another thing.' Bassus was staring into his cup. 'The second fire, in the Broad Street District. You know where that started?'
'Tell me.'
'North west of the Sanquatis Gate. On an estate owned by Ofonius Tigellinus.'
I set my wine cup down. It was still more than half full, and I'd almost forgotten I was holding it.
'Coincidence, my dear,’ I said. ‘Any fire has to start somewhere. And Tigellinus was out of Rome at the time.'
'As the emperor was ten days ago?' Bassus came as close to a sneer as he was capable of. 'How very convenient. Besides, the fire wasn't reported until it was well out of control.'
'Was there anyone on the estate to report it?'
'The house was staffed, yes. And it isn't that big. One of Tiggy's more modest properties.' Bassus set his own cup down. 'Titus, don't get me wrong. I said I didn't necessarily believe the emperor was involved, and I meant it. In any event what you and I think isn't important. People are blaming him, and even if they don't all claim he started the fire they're accusing him of keeping it going for his own purposes. And they've got evidence to back them.' I'd forgotten that Bassus was a lawyer, and a good one. 'Whatever the truth of the matter, Nero has a case to answer.'
'Even although the whole thing was an accident?' I was stubborn. 'You were in charge. You know the situation better than anyone. Could he have done more to help than he did?'
'Perhaps not, but –'
'Or been more concerned? Genuinely concerned? Forget the histrionics on the tower roof, they meant nothing, not in his terms, anyway. Believe me, Nero may be guilty of a lot of things but burning Rome isn't one of them.'
He sighed. 'Well, you may be right. He's not in my court anyway, and never likely to be. But if I were the emperor, guilty or innocent, I'd be very worried indeed, because he can't ignore public opinion and accident or not people are looking for a scapegoat. If he wants to slide out of this one with his credibility intact he'd better come up with one soon.'
At that point the slave came back to say that dinner was served. I can't say I enjoyed it.
42.
I was going over my accounts in the study a few days later when my head slave edged his way round the door.
'Yes, Crito?' I said. No answer. The man was shifting nervously from foot to foot. 'Well?' I stared at him. 'Is it a visitor?''
'No, sir.'
'What, then?'
Crito cleared his throat. 'I wanted...that is, sir, I was wondering whether...If you could possibly...' He stopped dead.
I put my pen down. I'd had him for twenty years and never seen the old dear so much as blush. Even at parties.
'Don't tell me,' I said. 'The cook's screwing one of the kitchen girls on the doorstep and the neighbours are complaining.'
'No, sir!' That was more like his usual style. 'I wished to ask you a favour. On a personal matter.'
'All right.' I indicated a chair. 'Sit down and let's hear it.' He hesitated. 'Crito, sit! You're making me feel nervous, dear.' He sat as if the chair seat had spikes. 'Now what's all this about?'
'Will you be seeing the emperor soon?'
Normally I'd have told him to mind his own business, but I bit my tongue. 'I might. Why?'
'Then, sir, I was wondering if perhaps you might consider talking to a...friend of mine first. At least, not a friend exactly, more of a...' He stopped again. He was bright red.
This was getting more intriguing by the minute. A lover? Crito was over sixty and ugly as sin. The idea was obscene. 'More of a what?'
He ducked the question. 'Someone I respect very much, sir.'
'Does this paragon have a name?'
'Yes. Of course. His name's Paullus.'
'And he wants me to put something before the emperor?' I was beginning to understand. This Paullus was obviously a slave or a freedman in trouble who'd asked Crito for help. And it must be serious for C
rito to come to me.
'Yes, sir. But not for himself. For all of us.'
'For all of who?' I was lost again.
Crito squirmed in his chair and turned an even deeper red.
'The city's Christians, sir,' he said.
. . .
I got it out of him at last. Lucius, so the rumour went, was about to blame the fire on Rome's Christian community to which, seemingly, my head slave belonged. I didn't know much about the cult, apart from the fact that it was a Jewish heresy currently popular among the domestic slave population, but I was surprised that Crito was an initiate. At his age and with his intelligence I'd have thought the old dear would have had more sense.
'So who is this Paullus?' I asked. 'A slave? Or a freedman?'
'Neither, sir.' Crito spoke with a curious pride. 'Paullus is a citizen.'
'He's what?' The name was Latin, of course, but that meant nothing. I hadn't expected citizenship, though. 'A Roman?'
'No, not a Roman, sir. A Cilician, from Tarsus.' Crito was fidgeting again.
'And what exactly does this gentleman want me to do?'
'I'd rather he told you that himself.' That was said politely but firmly, in the tone Crito used for turning away unwanted guests. I knew from experience that he wouldn't budge an inch further.
I gave in.
'All right. I'll be seeing the emperor in two days' time. Bring this Paullus of yours round tomorrow and we'll –'
'He can't come here, sir. He's under house arrest.'
That stopped me. House arrest wasn't usual, not for an ordinary citizen. 'What the hell for?'
'Rabble-rousing.'
I laughed. Crito had the grace to blush; he'd never, so far as I knew, been in trouble with the law in his life, and he'd no time for criminals. This Paullus must be special indeed.
'So you want me to go to him, do you? Crito, my dear, I'm sorry, but really –'
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